


Carry Me Home

by spinnd



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon-Typical Violence, Community: hobbit_kink, Fluff, Heavy Angst, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Tenderness, Young Dwalin, Young Thorin, followed shortly by
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 17:24:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2237307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinnd/pseuds/spinnd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5+1 for tender moments between the Prince Under the Mountain, and his Guard of Guards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carry Me Home

**Author's Note:**

> Fic collating attempts, haphazard or otherwise. 
> 
> For the kink meme prompt: Dwalin/Thorin, Tender Moments
> 
> I also blame [ this post ](http://theheirsofdurin.tumblr.com/post/96274369468/dwalin-with-thorin-post-bofa-like-thorin) for this sudden and inevitable attack of Dworin feels.

-

1\. 

He is barely able to see over the cot edge, even standing on tiptoes, but he is able to catch glimpses of the little prince swaddled tight in his bedclothes, a small chubby face topped with a dark, dark head of hair. 

"Baby's sleeping," his brother tells him while trying to usher him away quietly, but he whines and swats at the hand around his arm - he wants to stay here. 

"Don't wake him," Balin warns, before leaving the room to fetch some milk and more warm towels for the sleeping babe. 

Dwalin can hardly see over the edge, but he can hear the soft gurgling noises that edge on the cusp of fussing, and so he sets about to rocking the cradle, not stopping even when the whimpers peter out into deep breathing. 

He smiles proudly when his big brother returns, and feels very grown-up when he makes his announcement of his success:

"Baby's sleeping."

-

2\. 

They are of an age when they could still afford to play and train together, and of an age when children could be cruel regardless of name or status, when even a dwarf prince is easy picking if he was small enough. 

Not that Dwalin is much bigger, compared to the bullies who have a distinct advantage over them in both height and weight. Nevertheless, he hurls himself at the older boys who had his friend - best friend - pinned to the ground, and sets about trying to pummel them with his small fists. 

They all end up receiving a hiding for the all-out brawl that had eventually resulted, because Old Master Nar is nothing but strict, and if they were to become warriors, they had to learn discipline and responsibility - even if the lessons had to be beaten into them. 

Later, as they are nursing their battle wounds and sore behinds, he looks up to find Thorin smiling at him from behind a black eye and a snotty nose. 

"Thanks, Dwal," his friend says, and suddenly leans across to hug him. "You're my best friend."  
Dwalin ducks his head sheepishly, but returns the hug just as forcefully. 

"I'll always be there for you, Thorn."

-

3\. 

He sees the last of the dwarves trickle out, singed and bloodied, from the smoking doorway, and when there is still no sign of Thorin among them, he's running back full-tilt towards the ruins of their once-home, legs unsteady in his growing panic.

Then Thorin emerges, struggling under the weight of the King, and Dwalin reaches them just as the King lashes out blindly, calling for his lost gold, and the young prince's lip bleeds from the force of the blow.

They keep close to Thror's side, arms twining into a firm hold around the raving King's shoulders as they retreat from their Mountain, soothing him with calm words and reassuring touches even as he howls and curses at them in his gold-madness. 

"Traitor," the King shouts, and spits in the face of his grandson. "You will let that beast take everything from us! You would run, coward. You are not worthy to sit on our throne."

He sees Thorin flinch at his grandfather's words, but his friend remains stoic and the rest of the journey is passed in much the same way until they arrive at one of the makeshift camps and set up for the approaching night.

Thorin seeks him out when it is finally dark, and he asks no questions when the younger dwarf lays down and curls up against him. Merely spreads out the bedroll over the both of them, tugging it above their heads, and lets his prince sob violently, silently, into his chest.

-

4\. 

The hobbit's new rug is soft and lush beneath his skin, more comfortable than what he has slept on in a very long time, and he turns over, seeking out the other dwarf who he finds sitting some way away, staring into the fire. They must be the only ones awake now, for surely everyone else had retired for the night.

"Thorin." He calls softly. "Thorin, come. You need rest."

Thorin acknowledges him with the barest of nods, and he has that look on his face again; the one of heavy thoughts and repressed fears and a sleepless night ahead.

Dwalin gets up with a sigh and pads over to sit next to his prince by the hearth. 

There is a long silence before Thorin finds the words to speak.

"I am afraid, Dwal," he murmurs them to the crackling flames. "I'm afraid- I'm afraid I might not know the way."

In a familiar comforting gesture, he cards a gentle hand through his friend's greying hair, and Thorin leans into the touch almost desperately. His other hand finds and smoothes out a clenched fist, and their fingers fiercely intertwine. 

"We have our company, and the wizard, and the hobbit, who will be of more help than you're willing to acknowledge, I can assure you."

Dwalin smiles at Thorin's snort of amusement. He tightens his grip on the warm palm nestled in his.

"And you know I'll always be there for you." 

"I know," Thorin says, and brings their clasped hands up to press his lips against them. 

"I know."

-

5\. 

It is too late, far too late, when he finally reaches him, but it doesn't stop him from sinking to his knees to pull his friend - brother - _king_ \- against him, into his lap.

There is blood on Thorin's face, down his neck, seeping through the rings of his mail and the rivets of his plate armour, and it's gotten all over him now too as he cradles his friend who is choking and writhing in his grip. Thorin is fighting him, weak as he is, eyes wild, and he is trying to twist around to look behind them.

"My boys," he rasps, hands clutching spasmodically at slicked metal and empty air. "My boys, Dwal, where are my boys?" 

He cannot answer him, his chest is suddenly too tight and hot, and when there is only silence in response to his question, Thorin finally _knows_. 

The prince is a shaking, slippery weight in his arms, but Dwalin clings on as ragged screams tear from a damaged throat and Thorin gives himself to the grief that drags from him sobs he no longer has breath, or strength, for. 

And Dwalin just kneels there in the blood and mud, and holds the broken form against him. Holds him tight, because he had made a promise to never let go. 

"You will see them again, my prince," he murmurs and strokes the head pillowed against his chest. "You will see them again, in the Halls, where your Kings and Fathers wait. Where you will be safe. Where you will be home." 

He holds him until his King falls still in his ams. 

Only then does he allow himself to weep. 

-

_Don't say we have come now to the end._

_White shores are calling._

_You and I will meet again._

-

+1.

They bury them in the tombs deep in the heart of the mountain, and Dwalin takes small comfort that his kin have returned to rest in their rightful place. 

But there is nothing here for him, anymore. And when his gaze meets his brother's amidst the celebrations of the coronation, he knows that Balin too will find no peace here.

He packs what little he needs, and leaves with what little he needs. There are no farewells or well-wishes for his journey - he's made sure of that. Only his brother had guessed his intentions, but by the time dawn awakens the inhabitants of Erebor, Dwalin, Son of Fundin, will be long gone. 

He takes a narrow secret path out of the Mountain; one that he and Thorin Thrainsson had found all those years ago, two boys running amok through the caverns and tunnels of their home.

This path here, he remembers, it had been this tunnel where Thorin had fallen once as a dwarrow of barely thirty; had slipped on a loose rock and landed awkwardly as his leg trapped and snapped beneath him. He had cried, long and loud at the pain, and Dwalin had been _terrified_. 

But he had soothed the younger dwarfling, crouched down and held his hand and wiped away the tears that were running freely, wetting the wispy beard on flushed cheeks.

"Can you walk?" He had asked, and Thorin had shook his head, and bit his lip and tried his best not to cry again. 

And Dwalin had nodded, for he knew what he had to do now, and squared his shoulders, and smiled as he did his very best to be brave.

"Don't worry, Thorn. If you can't walk, I will carry you home."

_end_


End file.
